


TCW Brain Stretches

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: Original Work
Genre: Prompt Fic, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5385602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of various writing exercises. Our NaNoWriMo region has started posting one exercise a week. Assignments range from drabbles to vocabulary practice to prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was actually already posted as a Drabble in my work "Drabbles of Doom," so to those of you who may have already read it... sorry. 
> 
> Exercise: Write a drabble (exactly 100 words) on the topic of fear.

* * *

### 

She is chased by nightmares invisible, and though she never sees them, the terror is real, disruptive of her routine. Her heart pounds, blood races, hot in the veins but cold in her chest. She sucks in air—or tries to—and panics when it catches in her throat instead. Her eyes see everything, every fleeting shadow and dark corner. Someone could hide there. Or there.  

She knows there is no one there. She has been told this, medically, understands it to be true. There is no one there. 

But it feels like there is. And long ago, there was.


	2. Describe the Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was to describe the room we were in.

The walls shrink. 

That's really the only explanation that can be drawn from The Way Things Are. What once was an empty collection of box-like rooms has become an ordeal, a trial of survival, if I may. The air is oppressive, windows covered with blankets to stave off the chill. The scent of dog, coffee, and dinner from earlier with the gentle brush of dust choke my lungs. There doesn't seem to be any oxygen, and whether that's from a legitimate lack of oxygen or a general sense of I'm-the-fuck-over-this-place remains to be seen. All I know for the moment is that there is a pillow crowding my left and a dog crushing my right. The left hemisphere of my world blinks and chirps out the theme of whatever RPG my husband is playing (Final Fantasy Tactics? Ah yes, that's it). The right of my field of vision is mostly a blank cloud of darkness. There's a hallway there, but it seems to be swallowing the sound. The entirety of sensations is a vice around my skull. 

_Pulse, push, crush, squeeze._

It's the kind of situation that urges me to escape. I feel the pull of destiny, but there isn't anywhere to go. The cold wind on my neck leaking through our shitty windows reminds me that there's a winter storm out there. I sit here, assailed by the blinding white of my laptop screen, as the cracking sound of the dog's bone and the scrape of fork against bowl and the _smack smack_ of someone eating interrupt my every train of thought.

 _I'm a writer,_ I tell myself over and over again, but it's hard to tell anymore. I'm surrounded by more distractions than I am words. I am more often than not disrupted by clutter and noise than I am focused on the plot at hand. As I fight the endless war against disarray my mind is consumed by thoughts of characters who aren't real. There's a man who's actually something like a dragon and two princesses that evolve in my thoughts, ready to adventure and unfurling into people. I'm so excited by the thought of penning their tale that I rush through the laundry and throw books into a box, hustle them down the stairs to the pile of boxes awaiting our impending move.

But when I sit in front of the screen to write, it's whining dog and button presses, flashing lights and nattering roommate, a lack of space and a growing sense of frustration. 

Would that I could throw it all away and subject myself to a blanker box instead, but alas. 


	3. Rothney's Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this was to write about a non-human character interacting with or observing a human character. 
> 
> This happens to be chapter 3 for something I'm writing now. Wish I could have given you Ch 2 ('twas hilarious), but I didn't write that for the prompt, so :P

Aryzgor crept through dark corridors undetected, a small smile upon his lips. He gloated, laughing on the inside at the downfall of Rothney’s fortunes. He prowled candlelit hallways, sneaking into room after room, searching for the prince and his mate. He espied sleeping maidservants, came upon coupling humans of no import, and discovered nurseries of children of varying sizes. He sniggered to himself as he searched like a maniacal child, soaking in the power of knowing he could kill any or all of them if he chose. But mass carnage was not his mission. If he went on such a spree, Rothney would not know that this was his fault, and that, Aryzgor required. Rothney would squirm and seethe and blame himself for Aryzgor’s deed. That was the whole goal. 

It wasn’t long before he grew frustrated, though, for the search was taking too long. Aryzgor was not one possessed of patience, and his desire for Rothney’s misfortune was too great for his serenity. He began gnashing his teeth as he seethed up and down corridors—so many corridors, and _why?_ —searching for his nemesis where he slept. When at long last his eyes fell upon the painted, massive monstrosity of what was surely Rothney’s door—it depicted many a beast impaled and bleeding and a single ‘victorious’ knight in the center, holding aloft a bleeding hide—he nearly trumpeted his joy. He did crash upon it, hands first, a man possessed. He wheezed, laughing silently, relishing this victory. No doubt in his heart that this was Rothney’s room. His fleshy human fingers closed around the looped handle, heart racing in anticipation of the sweetest kill. Felwar bloodlust, dormant for too long. For the first time, he decided he quite liked it after all. 

But then he tugged on the handle, his moment nigh, and the door refused to budge. Outraged, he shook and jerked at the door, to no avail. He growled, a menacing sound low in his throat. 

“Excuse me!” hissed a woman’s voice, haughty and aggressive. “That is the prince’s bedchamber! Now, go, at once, before I have you arrested!”

He whirled, snarling, fury turning over the chambers of his heart. He no longer cared if he was found out. He took three steps toward her before her bespectacled eyes widened to twice their size. Her mouth fell open, aghast, before she turned and hurried up the stairs. 

The clock was ticking. She’d have gone for help. Frustrated further, he turned to stare at the locked door and bent his will upon it. He didn’t know how to pick a lock with human fingers and he didn’t wish to shift in such a confined and perilous place. With dogged determination, he changed only his hands instead, pleased to see his natural claws—powerful, dextrous claws—return to each of his appendages. He grinned as he tore through soft wood like nothing, ripping out the lock and handle together. He dropped them uselessly to the carpeted hallway, then focused his attention on the now unguarded room. His talons receded, giving way to useless, fragile flesh once more.

The door swung inward without a sound, for the castle staff of Ol’ Bryll were diligent with their duties and Missus Prydala, the woman he’d chased away moments before, could tolerate little less than a squealing hinge. The interior was dark, and waxed and waned with the sound of Rothney’s soft snoring. Aryzgor’s senses near vibrated with excitement. Never in his life had he gleaned so much satisfaction from the hunt itself. He’d spent the majority of his life dispatching weak and guileless prey. This man could kill him easily in a fair fight. 

The woman arranged alongside him probably could, too. All firehearted were higher than the Felwar in the food chain. But Felwar were not easy prey regardless, and Aryzgor meant to remind Rothney of that very soon. He tiptoed to the bed, taking his time, enjoying this moment. He almost hoped that someone did wake up, but only just in time to see the deed he meant to do. At his side, his fingers flexed and squeezed, imagining crushing Rothney’s bride’s pretty neck between them. 

But no, that was too good a death for Rothney’s princess. After all, if he killed her as a human, Rothney would never know it for Felwar justice. His eyes flickered between them and his hands, suffering a moment of uncertainty. Would it not be more satisfactory to rend her chest apart? To tear into the soft, essential viscera? To watch her bleed beneath his gored claws and see Rothney’s face as he gathered up the shreds of her in shock and agony? 

He turned his attention toward the man. He’d never seen Rothney so close before. His mouth was slightly parted. For several breaths, Aryzgor watched him desperately gasp and choke on breath, then sigh it out. It was almost mesmerizing, in a way, to see him thus. His neatly trimmed black beard lined the whole of his jaw and trekked across his upper lip. He was an unmarred man, a victorious warrior who made the king of Beruyl very proud without wounding himself. It was unfair for a human to be so virtuous without suffering a single loss.

And with that, his eyes shifted back to his bride. A true beauty, imported from a nearby nation to solidify political ties. Her dark hair fanned across her face and her pillow, and her brown skin was almost black in the night darkness of the room, of a color with Rothney’s own. They had the same fine bone structure and the same noble bearing. Beautiful people, beloved by their subjects. What a shame it would be…to lose her.

Filled near to bursting with the soon to be sated bloodlust roaring through his veins, Aryzgor shifted back to his original form. Light burst into the room, though he dimmed it immediately. His eyes darted to his prey, hoping he didn’t wake them with his flashbulb existence. They remained as still as before, and a snore from Rothney confirmed that they yet slept. Aryzgor’s tail fronds twitched once, then he lowered his head and crept around to her side, jaws slavering, every fiber of muscle tense with violence.

And then he heard it. The softest sound, barely a cough. It was only the gentlest of exhalations, but to his heightened senses, it might as well have been the tolling of a church bell. He froze from tail tip to nostrils, half-leaning over the lady’s body, claws outstretched. His ears swiveled in that direction, straining against the silence for a reprisal of the first utterance. It happened again, a little more like a laugh this time, only it teetered on the edge of a much louder cry. He dropped to his belly completely, terrified, for he hadn’t known another was in the room. After the shock of panic subsided, however, logic kicked in. The voice was smaller than a normal human voice. There was no reason for Rothney and his lady to sleep with another small person in the room unless…

…That person was their progeny. 

And then he did laugh out loud, a sort of incredulous bark as his plan morphed. All parents, regardless of species, were insanely protective of their young. Aryzgor could kill the child—or better yet, the mate _and_ the child—and Rothney would be in mourning until the end of his life. He crept on his elbows and belly all the way to the small, cushioned box that held the child. Then, he craned his neck, tilting his jaw over the edge. Slowly, he rose to his toes, standing his full height and peering into the baby box. 

It was a tiny thing, smaller than his head. It was probably only a luna or two old at best. Of all the thoughts he could have had, the one that prevailed in Aryzgor’s mind was that it was fat. It had chubby little fingers curled into fists, a round and bulbous face, and a bulging, squishy stomach. _Human larva,_ he snorted inwardly. Actually, it was rather gross. It even smelled...off. In fact, he was quite certain that he didn’t want to put his mouth on it at all. Eating it or otherwise biting upon it was definitely out of the question. 

Then it opened its mouth, and its whole face scrunched up. A tiny, slimy little tongue poked free from its lips, tasting the air as any animal might. Aryzgor’s head turned about ninety degrees to the side, locked in uncertainty about what to do. He had come here to kill the woman. Surely he should kill the child instead. Or perhaps both? 

But something stayed his claws just long enough that the bloodlust ebbed. It gave his mind a little more space to think clearly. Death, he mused as he stared at the frail human child, was so sudden. Rothney would be enraged and angry for such a short time. Even if he grieved for the rest of his life, it was but a blip in the timeline. Aryzgor, on the other hand, would be mourning Myzaria and the downfall of his species for millenia. He would know pain for eternity. There were better ways to strike at Rothney’s happiness. Other ways to damage his pride and break his spirit.

Cleverer ways.

This child, the heir of his enemy, was bound to be a powerful fireheart. The Thaoven bloodline had plagued the Felwar for centuries already. Their magic burned hot and strong and only grew stronger with every generation. This child would haunt Aryzgor if it grew up under Rothney’s tutelage.

A small, curious voice in the back of his mind chimed in, _Ah, but what if it didn’t?_

He could steal the child and take it someplace. Perhaps it would grow up never knowing it was a Thaoven, and be an average fireheart with moderate aspirations of artisanry or craftsmanship. It would never bother Aryzgor again, and Rothney would spend his lifetime looking for it.

He frowned at the thought. Rothney would search. Then he would assume the worst, then grieve. But afterward he would only spawn another, and they’d be in the same predicament as before. It was no different than killing the thing.

He could replace the child with another child, though. Perhaps one with a lesser standing? Perhaps a firehearted from the fields. A farmer’s child, the inheritor of a magic that was only enough to sustain Beruyl’s food supply. His eyes drifted shut, thinking of the great prince Rothney raising a lowly common farmer as his prince or princess.

It wasn’t enough. It would only mean a forecast of mild disappointment. It would upset Rothney, but it would not ruin him. To ruin him, though, he’d need to strike magic out of the child. To cripple it. Perhaps if he maimed it, beset Rothney’s larva with a physical deformity that it would have to carry throughout its life? 

Better, but inadequate. The best scenario would be to force him to raise his child without magic at all, but where—?

His muzzle swiveled atop his neck almost a full circle. He couldn’t see it, but far off in the distance, thousands of miles at least, was the land of the coldhearts. They were like the firehearted, the same species and physical makeup. There was just one critical difference: the coldhearts were magicless. Completely. Their land, their creatures, their culture…their lives…completely devoid of the magic that the firehearted took for granted. In fact, no one on this side of the world knew the coldhearts existed, and Aryzgor would bet that the coldhearts were the same about Beruyl. 

He turned back to the infant, an idea forming. A wonderful, awful idea that would ruin Rothney forever. With that idea came a torrent of quiet laughter that hurt more than it should have. He cursed his human form as he scooped up the child.

 

 


	4. My Will is Stronger Than Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt is to rewrite a scene from a movie, television show, book, etc. 
> 
> So I give you this thing. <3

She was falling.

Not in the way that Toby was falling--up, sideways, impossible, insane--but somehow _inside_. The words faltered on her tongue, failed her, as they always did, but for a different reason this time. It wasn’t a glitch in her intellect or general, teenage distraction. No.

Between them, he held aloft the curious crystal he sometimes carried with him. She knew it to be rife with his magic, meant to lure her into his embrace. It was the portal to his complete control over her. Extraordinarily dangerous. It was her doom. But it wasn’t the crystal that captivated her so much as the man who held it.

Or was he a beast? No, that wasn’t quite right either. He was too lovely, too elegant, too sentient for a beast.

It was the chaos in his eyes. Deep, organized, focused chaos. A maelstrom about the face, consuming her, quietly stealing her self, little by little. Drawing her in and keeping her there. If she submitted to the eyes, rather than the crystal, would she still be severed from her soul?

She stepped towards him and cocked her head to the side, her lips parted as if to speak. And in doing so, he recoiled and snapped, “Stop!” There was ferocity and madness in his tone, but fear was there as well.

Fear...of her?

She took another step, and for a second the sucking abyss froze. Time suspended. Sound fled. There was no labyrinth, no light, no matter. It was simply her, simply him, a bit of earth beneath them. And with all of that magic stripped away, she saw him for what he really was. Just a man, broken and lonely and blessed with unimaginable power. In an instant she was ensnared, caught up in the features of the frightening magician who haunted her every step and frightened her with monsters. She reached, her hand half folded and honest.

He blinked, somewhere halfway between curiosity and the urge to run. He misunderstood her intention and offered her more, always the impossible _more_. “I’m offering you your dreams. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything! Just let me rule you, and you can have everything you want…” He trailed off as she stopped walking, then he fell to his knees. The crystal vanished without a flourish or sound.

His eyes widened as she stood over him, her hand hovering inches above his head. The dark clouds in his eyes broke and gave way to an odd and lovely light, and in that moment the decision was made. “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle, beyond the Goblin City...to take back the child that you have stolen.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with one finger to his lips.

With a wicked, tiny smile, she continued. “And though you offer me my wildest dreams to spare him, my little brother, I have resisted you all along. For I never knew what I wanted. My heart has been a fickle thing. I have filled my room floor to ceiling with meaningless treasures that mean little to me and entertain me even less. Wall to wall, littered with garbage, just as she said.” She dropped her hand, graced beneath his chin with a fingertip. “Ask me what I want.”

His lips pressed together, thinned and stretched. Then twitched, slight and fleeting, and his eyes narrowed to sharp little points. Even a king on his knees could be commanding, and he wasn’t accustomed to submission. “Have I not offered you everything you wanted?” he whispered fiercely, defying her question with one of his own.

“No,” she breathed. 

He bared his teeth and snarled, his patience worn. “Then what do you want?”

She bent forward and met him eye to eye. “You see, if this tale unfolded the way it was written, I would tell you that my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great...but that’s untrue. My will is _stronger_ than yours, and I have no kingdom. I want this one. And…” She found his hands and pulled him to his feet. “I want you.”

 


End file.
